


Something Quite Wonderful

by Crysania



Series: Rumbelle Fic Exchanges [15]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21890701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/pseuds/Crysania
Summary: Written for the Rumbelle Secret Santa 2019 - This is a Harry Potter AU of sorts, but it's really focused on Gold and Belle.Minister Granger is too busy to tell the new Prime Minister about magic. She sends Belle instead. It’s just to bad that PM Gold is such a stubborn bastard.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: Rumbelle Fic Exchanges [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1198693
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Something Quite Wonderful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheStraggletag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/gifts).



Belle French is pacing the carpet outside the Minister of Magic’s office. Up one side, down the other. She’s sure if she continues in the same way for too long, she’s going to wear a path. The receptionist, a young woman who probably wasn’t even born during the Second Wizarding War watches her.

It ratchets up her worry.

She doesn’t know why she’s been called in. She can’t imagine what Hermione Granger would want with _her_. She’s not met the woman, though she of course knows of her. First in her class, despite the disruption of the war, youngest Minister of Magic, she has her hands full with the fallout from the war.

Belle was a first year when the war ended, one of the children hidden away from the worst of it while the Hermione Grangers of their world took on the villains and made their world, well, if not completely safe, at least _safer_. It had been terrifying. She’d only just learned of magic, and her quiet life of childhood games of tag and books of adventure had suddenly been replaced with Quidditch and flying brooms and _Wingardium Leviosa_. And then along came…well… _him_ …the one whose name she still shudders at pronouncing, though by all accounts this time he is well and truly dead.

She’d recovered.

They all had, the scars for some worn proudly while for others they were hidden deep inside. On the outside, Hermione Granger _looks_ normal. But she can see the tension at the corners of her eyes, can see the way she frowns just a little bit too much. She’s a champion for the cause of the downtrodden and it wears on her, Belle is sure of it.

Hermione Granger is the greatest of the great, so Belle can’t quite fathom why _she_ , of all people, has been called into her office this day. She’s just a librarian. Oh, that’s not to say Belle French isn’t intelligent and sought after. She too had graduated first in her class, a bright girl lauded by others as the next Hermione Granger. Professor McGonagall had often patted her on the shoulder when she passed her in the hall and once in awhile she’d seen the old Gryffindor wipe a tear from her eye.

But she hadn’t had dreams of being an Auror, or a member of the ministry. She hadn’t wanted to be in the spotlight.

She had wanted to be a librarian. That’s all she’d ever wanted to be. And when Madam Pince had retired, Belle had slid right into the position as if she’d always been there.

Hogwarts was a place she was allowed to be herself, to spend time with her books, to encourage young minds to read not only the books on magic they’d find there, but the small stash of Muggle novels she kept hidden in her quarters.

The wizarding world had changed, but not nearly as much as she would have liked.

“The Minister will see you now,” the receptionist says and Belle stops her pacing.

“Now?”

The woman gives her a quizzical look. “No, a week from now,” she says. And then – “Yes, _now_. She doesn’t bite you know,” she offers up as Belle puts her hand on the doorknob.

“Miss French!” she’s greeted with almost as soon as the door slides open. Minister Granger is seated behind her large mahogany desk. Papers are scattered all over it in front of her, and she looks a little frazzled. Or that might just be the wild hair that sticks about her face. “Please do come in. And shut the door behind you.”

“Minister Granger,” Belle starts to say.

The minister waves a dismissive hand at her. “Hermione, please. From one book lover to another, let’s just dispense with all these titles.”

“Belle then,” she says, holding out her hand for the other woman to shake.

“Excellent!” Hermione says. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”

“I don’t understand why I’m here,” Belle says as she takes a seat in front of the desk.

“I’m all too aware of that. I don’t mean to be secretive about these things.” Belle watches as she bites her lip, a little smirk on her face. “How _is_ the library at Hogwarts these days?”

Belle blinks. “About as usual, I guess. First years still try to sneak into the Restricted section. I still catch seventh years trying to use the stacks to hide their assignations.”

Hermione laughs. “I’m glad some things never change.”

“Yes…well…and you called on me for…” Belle’s voice trails off. Talking about her beloved library is all well and good, but she knows that’s not why she’s here. And for some reason, Hermione seems to be stalling.

“Of course. All business,” Hermione says with a smile. “I’m afraid I have asked you here with a specific duty in mind. I don’t much like having to call on others, but I feel for this I must.”

Belle feels a little frisson of fear shoot through her heart. “Yes?”

“You are a Muggleborn, yes?” Hermione asks. Belle nods. “Do you still keep up with the latest politics then?”

“I do.” Belle’s heart and soul belong to the wizarding world, of course, but she still has a foot in the Muggle one. Her parents keep her grounded there.

“Good. You have heard, of course, that we have a new Prime Minister. One Caelan Gold?” Belle nods at that. She had heard, of course. Her father had been lamenting his election since the moment it happened. According to her father, it was bad enough that Gold’s party got in, and her father had certainly been going on and on about _that_. But that meant Caelan Gold was Prime Minister and she’s been listening to her father’s rants about him for _months_. She knows little of Gold. She’s seen him, of course, on the telly, when she watches coverage of Parliament or the election. But she knows little more than that he cuts a dashing figure in his suits, and that he _hates_ the monarchy.

“Good then, you should be prepared,” Hermione continues with. 

“Prepared? For what?”

Hermione sighs at that. “There’s…a lot going on here. Usually this is my job. I’m really asking you a _huge_ favor here.”

“Yes?”

“I need you to go to Caelan Gold and tell him about the existence of magic.”

* * *

“How the bloody hell did I end up here?” Caelan Gold is staring out the window, eyes sweeping the city of London. Prime Minister. He’d been happy doing his part as a member of his party, keeping his head down and his nose clean. Or at least as clean as one’s nose stays in politics.

And then there’d been the upswing.

And now _he_ has to lead them. Caelan Gold, who spent more time spinning wool into yarn, an old family pastime that he’d somehow taken up after his divorce and subsequent child custody battles. They’d been ugly. The spinning had been soothing. Something steady that quieted his mind. Just him and the wheel and feel of the wool in his hands.

“Well, more people voted for you…”

He turns and shoots a glance at David Nolan, Ambassador from the States. “That was a rhetorical question,” he points out. He still has no idea how he and the Ambassador had become such good friends. Nolan was everything he was not. Young, handsome, outgoing and well-liked. He’d once been a sheriff and still stuck by the rule of law, even when involved in something as dirty as politics.

“Right,” Nolan says.

“It’s just…now I have to meet with the bloody _queen_.” Gold grimaces at that. He’s spent years rallying against the monarchy. It’s not that he hates them _personally_. For all he knows, they could be good, decent people. But he sees the way they carry on, the haughty disdain for the masses he can’t help but read into every glance, every movement, and it sets him on edge.

There’s something especially off-putting about Elizabeth. There’s a coldness there, a complete lack of emotion. She smiles, she waves, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. And he’s never quite been able to tell if she feels she’s above them all or if she’s simply uncomfortable with it all and doing her best to hide it.

He can understand the latter.

He’s faked his way to the top himself.

“I’m sure it won’t be so bad,” Nolan says.

“You’ve met her?”

He nods. “Almost as soon as I was appointed. I landed in London and was whisked off to a meeting with the queen. You can imagine how well that one went.” Nolan grimaces. Gold knows he’d been briefed on their customs, had been told when to bow, how to act. But the British find most Americans uncouth and while he’s sure Nolan had done his best, he’s still pretty sure he came across as some backwater cowboy.

He wonders if the British monarchy have ever gotten over the bloody war.

“I’m sure my time will come,” Gold says, turning to look out the window. “I just...I have a bad feeling about all of this.”

Nolan stands and claps him on the back. “You’ll be just fine my friend. Honestly, they couldn’t have picked a better man.” The door opens just before Nolan reaches it and for a moment the man’s hand hovers in the air. It’s be almost comical if it weren’t so bloody annoying.

“Oh!” says the woman on the other side of the door. Gold notices that her hand is not up like she was intending to knock. Instead, it’s held out, the hand grasping at where the doorknob would have been a moment before. “You startled me!” She holds a hand to her chest, eyes wide. Gold tries to ignore that little jump his heart makes as he watches her. She’s…well…more than beautiful. There’s something ethereal about the tiny woman, as if she’s part of their world and yet not.

 _Fae_ , he can hear his father say, disdain dripping from his voice. He pushes that way. He doesn’t want to think of his father right at that moment.

“Can I help you, dearie?” he asks.

Nolan looks from Gold to the woman, and damn him if a grin doesn’t break out on his face. “I was just leaving. Good luck!” And then he’s out the door and Gold wants to shout something less than pleasant at his retreating back.

“You’re Caelen Gold,” she says.

“Of course I am. It’s not like my face hasn’t been plastered all over the bloody telly these days.”

She laughs.

No, giggles, is more like it.

“Of course. You _have_ become quite popular.”

“Not of my own doing, I assure you,” he says, the words flat. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No…” she starts to say.

“Then make one,” he says and turns from her. “I’m sure my secretary will find you a time to meet with me to air whatever concerns you have.”

“Oh, no. You don’t understand. This is urgent…”

“Of course it is, Miss…” He hesitates there. He realizes that she hasn’t introduced herself.

“French,” she supplies. “Belle French.”

He narrows his eyes on her. He knows that name…from somewhere. “French? Related to Moe French?”

She nods, and he’s _almost_ sure she was considering rolling her eyes before he face turns back to some semblance of neutrality. “Yes…”

He groans. _Royalty_. Of course. It’s a distance relation, to be sure, but still, she’s some cousin to the queen and therefore one of _them_. Who else would just come traipsing into his office as if they owned the place? He detests them, their hoity-toity manners, the way the world still follows their every move. Even the bloody Americans. He’d have expected them to not want to have a bit of interestin the British monarchy. They had broken away from it, after all, freed themselves from their tyranny while his own country had been overrun and near-absorbed into their world.

The Scots were still a proud people and there’s a small part of himself that hopes he can undermine the monarchy, undermine the British system in the hopes of granting freedom to his people. He wants _away_ from these people, ultimately. Not to be mixed up with them.

“Perhaps you don’t realize this,” Gold says, taking a step toward her. Then another. “But I don’t have to cow-tow to your wishes. You have no power here.”

“But…” she starts to say.

“Make an appointment,” he says, and reaches out to slam the door in her face, turning the lock with perhaps a bit more force than he should have.

* * *

Belle stares at the door.

He just shut it.

In her face.

She lets out a huff of annoyance. She’d been warned, of course, that Caelan Gold could be _difficult_. That he was prickly, and she knew from watching him on the telly that he really was _not_ a fan of the British royalty. And she’s aware she’s _related_. But it’s distant at best. Third cousins twice removed. Or something like that. Okay, she’s not really sure how she’s related to the queen. Her mother once gave her the rundown of it, but she’d barely paid attention, too young at the time to really care.

She certainly hadn’t cared once she discovered she was more than just some distant relative to the queen.

She was a _witch_.

“Fine then,” she mutters. She takes a quick glance around the room. The secretary has disappeared, probably off to make more tea for the irritating man on the other side of the door. So she quickly takes out her wand. “ _Alohomora_ ,” she mutters. The lock turns and a moment later she’s pushing the door open to step back into the room.

She won’t let him push her out this time.

“Mr. Gold,” she says, and he startles from where he’s standing at the window, turning to look back at her with his mouth partway open. “You don’t seem to understand…”

“How did you get back in here?” he cuts her off with. There’s a small sneer to his lip and even with that, he’s still a handsome man. Some years older than her, certainly, but there’s something about him that she can’t quite put her finger on. Something in the eyes, a sort of keen intelligence in their depth, a lifetime of tragedy written into the lines of his face.

It's a strange feeling, really, feeling like she wants to _know_ him in ways she really does not want to voice.

“That’s what I’m here about,” she mutters.

“About how you got back in?”

She lets out a small laugh. “Oh goodness no. But that’s part of it, certainly.”

“You’re not bloody well making any sense.”

“I’m not, am I?” He’s right, of course. She doesn’t know how to broach this subject. Oh, Hermione had given her a few ideas here and there, but the reality is she’s spent the last sixteen year of her life learning about magic and learning how to _hide_ it from the rest of the Muggle world. Even the thought of talking about it to someone who is so completely Muggle as to be elected Prime Minister of their country sets her on edge.

Gold doesn’t say anything, just watches her. “Well?”

“Tell me, Mr. Gold. What do you know of magic?” It’s a start at least. Not a _good_ one, but a start.

And of course, he’s staring at her like she’s grown a third eye. She doesn’t. She thinks, at least. So she takes a slight step to the right and glances in the antique mirror there. _No_. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turns back to Gold.

“Magic?” he repeats.

“Yes. You know…” Here she pulls out her wand. “Magic.”

“Like pulling rabbits out of hats?”

“Oh gosh, why would anyone do _that_?”

He blinks once. Twice. “I don’t rightfully know. It always seems a dreadful thing.”

“Yes indeed,” Belle says. “Now Mr. Gold, there are things you don’t know about. I…I think you should sit down.”

“I’ll stand,” he says.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself then.” And then she just drops the words right there into the room. “You see, I’m a witch.”

He doesn’t do anything for a moment. And then he laughs. It’s a musical thing and Belle realizes she quite likes his laugh.

“What?” she asks.

“A witch.” He shakes his head. “You’re having me on. Is this some sort of first day in the job joke you play on every new Prime Minister?”

Belle shakes her head. “No, sir, I’m afraid I’m quite serious.”

He laughs again and she realizes he’s _mocking_ her.

“Miss…French, was it?”

“You bloody well know my name,” she says, and then sighs. “Minister Granger warned me you might be difficult.”

“I’m known for being difficult,” he shoots back with. “And just who is this ‘Minister Granger’ person. He wasn’t the last Prime Minister…”

“She,” she interrupts with.

Gold stares at her for a moment. “ _She_ was not the Prime Minister…”

Belle laughs and is gratified to see it catch him a bit off guard. “Of course not. She’s the Minister of Magic. Your counterpart in the Wizarding world, as it were.”

“And then why is _she_ not here to tell me of this… _magic_?”

“Oh, this is _not_ going well,” Belle mutters with a huff.

Then Gold _does_ sit, stepping around behind his desk to throw himself heavily into his chair. He leans back, one eyebrow raised. “Really dearie, just what _did_ you expect to happen?”

“Can I show you?”

A demonstration. Yes. That should be helpful. He can’t deny it if he sees something happen right in front of his eyes, right?

“By all means,” he says, waving his hand at her. “Though this does make me wonder, Miss French.”

“Belle,” she says, her name coming almost automatically to her lips. This is frustrating, to be sure. Made all the more so by the fact that, if she’s going to be completely honest with herself (and she likes to, thank you very much), there’s something quite unbelievably attractive about the new Prime Minister.

She does like a skeptic. They tend to like research…and books.

“Belle,” he concedes. “Just what _has_ happened to the nobility these days? I mean, we all know there’s a whole lot of incest…”

“Just stop it _right there_ , Mr. Gold,” she says. “That was uncalled for.”

He leans back, purses his lips. “Yes, well, perhaps so.” He watches her for another moment. “Alright, on with you then. Demonstrate your _magic_.”

“Indeed,” Belle says, glancing around the room. _Something simple, something easy_. She doesn’t want to, say, tip him upside down by his ankle or anything. _Ah yes, there_. There’s a sad looking plant at the corner of his desk, the soil a hard mass, the leaves of the plant half-dead already. She steps toward it and points her wand at it. “ _Aguamenti_ ,” she murmurs, watching as water comes out of the end of her wand like she opened a spigot.

When she’s done, she turns back to Gold with a smile.

He’s not smiling.

He looks annoyed.

“Oh well, done, Miss…Belle. Do you have the water hidden on you somewhere? I’ve never really been into those magic show things you folks do.”

She sighs.

“No, I don’t have water hidden on me. It’s a _spell_ , Mr. Gold. Muggles!” she says and throws her hands up in the air.

“Is that some derogatory term for us?” He sounds at least honestly confused at that.

“No,” she says with a huff, taking another glance around the room. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_.” She points her wand at a small vase, watching as it hovers a couple feet in the air.

“What are you…” He rushes toward it. “What are you doing? Put it down. Did you rig this room or something?”

“Of course not. It’s _magic_.”

“You’re _insane_ ,” he snarls at her. “Stop this, this instant.” He reaches out a hand to grasp her wand, and the resulting spark sends him back a few paces and causes her to lose the spell.

The vase falls heavily to the floor, hitting with a dull thud and breaking into several pieces.

Belle cringes.

“Get out of here,” Gold says. His eyes are wide and he’s clutching his hand like it hurts.

“Are you quite alright?” Belle asks, taking a step toward him.

“I’m _fine_. No thanks to you. _Get out_.”

“I can…”

“You’ve done enough.”

“But you…”

“Go!” he shouts, stepping toward her.

Belle retreats, right into the door. He opens it at her side, and she falls back slightly. And then the door is slammed in her face, just inches from her nose. _Again_.

“Well, that was rude.”

* * *

After the door is shut, Gold turns back to survey the damage. It’s not like the vase she’d somehow rigged to come up off his desk was one that he _cared_ about. It’s just…she broke it. She had to have. He has no idea who this barmy woman _is_ outside of some distant relative to the Corgi-obsessed queen, but she’s certifiable.

He hopes it’s the last he’ll see of her.

He bends over the vase and picks up some of the shards of it. He turns the pieces over, runs his hands over and around them.

“Sir?” comes the voice of his newly-instated secretary. He glances up at the woman.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“She…broke my vase.”

There are no strings.

He can find nothing there, nothing to account for the way the vase had risen from the desk, hovering in the air. _I must be going insane_.

“I think I need sleep.”

There has to be an explanation.

* * *

“You’re not going to find it,” Belle says as she approaches Gold. He’s in _her_ territory now, haunting the sixth floor of the library. Even among these muggle books, she feels at home. She loves the smell of the old books, the crinkling of the ancient pages. And he’s found himself in the section of ancient tomes, pawing through them at far too fast a pace to really _enjoy_ them.

He snarls something incoherent and turns to her. “Find _what_?”

“What you’re looking for, Mr. Gold. There’s nothing in these books that speak of the truth about magic.”

He makes a shushing noise and glances around them. He looks like a cornered thing, ready to run or attack if given the chance. She’s not really sure which way he’d go. He seems particularly volatile this day. She’s not an empath or anything, but she can almost _see_ the anger and confusion radiating off of him.

“Oh never mind that, Mr. Gold. I cast a _Muffliato_ charm.”

“A what?”

She laughs.

“Be _quiet_. Don’t you know we’re in a library?”There’s an agitation to the words, as if getting her to stop talking will somehow makes this all better for him.

“Libraries are my home,” she points out. “The _Muffliato_ charm will make it sound like we’re doing nothing more than whispering. Anyone passing nearby will not be able to make out our words, no matter how loud we speak.”

“Handy,” he mutters.

“Indeed it is.” She steps closer to the stacks, running her hands over the old leather spines. “You’ll find no evidence of real magic here. Oh, you’ll find our ancestors talking about _magic_ , but that’s just a lack of understanding of the universe. Any evidence of magic has been wiped from the Muggle world.”

“There’s that word again,” he says, stepping closer to her. “What is it?”

She takes a moment to study him. “Yes, I suppose you need to know that. _You_ , Caelan Gold, are a muggle. Muggles are people who are not witches or wizards. Most of them know nothing about real magic.”

He’s watching her with a strange intensity. “Let’s pretend for a moment that this is real. That _magic_ is real…you say _most_ don’t know about it…”

“Oh yes, well, some people have to know. Like the Prime Minister. And then there are the family of Muggleborns…”

“Families…of…”

“Yes, like me. My parents are both Muggles. And when I was 11, this _owl_ showed up with a letter from Hogwarts…” It was, if she’s going to be completely honest with herself, the best day of her life. There had been this _thing_ inside her that she had no explanation for. The lightbulbs that blew up when she got angry, the books that floated off shelves when she was thinking too hard. Her parents had tried to ignore it, explain it away. And then there had been the owl…

“Hogwarts?”

“It’s our school. Where we learn all about magic and how to control it. My parents know of magic because their child turned out to be a witch.”

He’s watching her and finally just shakes his head. “You’re insane. You know that right? Magic…”

She reaches up with her wand and directs one of the books to him. It smacks him just a _little_ too hard in the chest and he lets out a soft _oof_. “Yes, magic is not real. I’ve rigged all these books to come flying out at you.” She reaches up and pulls another one, and yet another one. They hit him softer than the first one and he tries to catch each one before they hit the ground.

She’s sort of gratified to see his eyes widen slightly as more books come out.

“Stop!” he shouts, and then glances around him quickly.“You’re…”

“Insane, so you’ve said,” she finishes for him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just what _will_ get you to believe? Because this is really getting quite exasperating.”

That’s not quite true, she knows. It’s actually just a tiny bit fun. Caelen Gold is amusing. His absolute refusal to believe despite the evidence to the contrary almost makes her laugh. She shouldn’t. She knows that. But she can’t help it. It bubbles up a little from deep inside her.

“You find this funny,” he says.

“A little.” She sighs. “Mr. Gold, would you care to join me for a short walk?”

He starts at that. “A walk?”

“Yes…please?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t know what a walk is?” She smirks.

“Well, of course I do,” he shoots back, runs a hand through his hair. He really does have nice hair, she notes. A lovely shade of brown with just a touch of grey. He looks distinguished in a way few men around her do and she feels this strange little fluttery thing take wing inside her somewhere.

“You’re kind of adorable when you get all riled up. You know that, right?” Belle almost laughs at the way his jaw drops just slightly at her words. “Oh drat, there’s that filter thing again. My parents did tell me I’d never learn to put one in place.”

“I…yes…” He runs a hand through his hair again, and she watches as the strands fall back into place. “You mentioned a walk?”

“Yes, of course, come along then.” And then she’s turning and walking away. She only gets a few feet before she turns back to him. He’s still standing by the stacks, a look of absolute confusion written into every line of his face. “Are you coming?”

He says nothing, just nods, and when she turns away again, she can hear him walking behind her. She smiles. What’s coming next, he’ll absolutely _never_ ever see coming.

* * *

He follows behind her, like a dog come to heel. He doesn’t have a choice, not really at least. She’s the sun and he’s some sort of planet orbiting around her. The trick with the books was a good one. A weird choice for someone who calls herself a librarian, but still. He has to admit it was quite clever.

And now as he trails behind her, he gets an eyeful of long legs, high heels, and a skirt that seems far too short for a librarian. But what does he know? Maybe that’s how they dress in this “magical”world of hers?

 _What are you even thinking, Gold?_ Besides the fact that he’s far too old for her, she’s clearly touched in the head somehow. He probably shouldn’t even be entertaining such thoughts or checking out the assets of someone who might not be _all there_.

As they leave the library and enter the somewhat dreary streets of London, he stops her with a touch to the arm. “Just where are we going?”

She turns back and smiles at him and _that_ was definitely not something he needed, he thinks, as he feels it shoot straight through his body. He feels helpless as she laughs and puts her hand on his arm. “There’s an apparition point in a nearby park.” She looks around herself and then points. “There,” she says. “Come along then.”

“An…apparwhat?”

“Apparation point.” The words are matter-of-fact but they make _no sense_.

“What…”

“You’ll see.”

He really should turn around, go back, tell her to take her talk of magic and apparitions and whatever else she’s going on about and take it back to whatever asylum she’s been released from. Do they still keep people in asylums? Is it possible she’s just some madwoman, practically right from the pages of an old 19th century novel?

“I’m not sure I want to see,” he mutters.

She laughs again, that lovely bright noise that he enjoys far more than he should. “Oh, you most definitely will want to see this Mr. Gold.”

And so he follows her. She leads him to a part of the park where, for that moment, they’re alone. He can’t see any of the joggers on the trail, can’t see the kids swinging. It’s just him and this infuriating creature.

“Come closer, Mr. Gold,” she says and holds out her arm. “We need to be touching for this.”

“Touching…”

“I don’t bite,” she says, and then her face erupts into another one of those million-watt smiles. “Well, unless you _ask_.” And she laughs. He feels his cheeks heat slightly at the implications. “Come then.”

He doesn’t even know why he does it. He’s still not sure he’s entirely in charge of his body. But he steps forward and links his arm with hers.

“Good. Ready?”

“For?”

And then she does… _something_. 

He’s not even sure he’d ever be able to define it.

It’s like she turns rapidly, a strange sort of pirouette, and he feels like his whole _body_ is somehow sucked into hers. Everything goes dark and yet topsy-turvy at the same time, weird ribbons fr rainbows, and falling up _and_ down. When his feet hit the ground, and he’s pretty sure they do by how it jars his entire body, his stomach lodges a protest. He sways a bit, wraps his arms around his stomach and nearly heaves his lunch onto the grass at his feet.

He just barely manages to hang on, but he feels a bit like he’s been run over by a truck that then turned around and hit him once more time. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what the bleeding hell _was_ that?”

“Oh dear,” he hears Belle murmur and when he’s pretty sure he’s not going to throw up at her feet, he rights himself.

He’s…not where he was before.

He blinks.

He’s pretty sure they were in a small park. He had only just passed the swing set, stepped onto a path that took them a bit further into the woods. And now…

“What have you done?” he asks.

“Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Gold?” she asks. He finally manages to focus on her and _she_ looks none the worse for the wear. No, quite the contrary. She looks like the only solid thing in a world that he’s sure suddenly makes no sense. She’s watching him with a furrowed brow, and then she bites her lip. “No, I can see you’re not…”

“I…”

She waves an arm about her. “Welcome to Trotternish,” she murmurs.

“Trotternish? Scotland?”

She brightens up at that and actually gives him a bright smile. “Oh, so you know the area?”

“I’m from Scotland,” he answers, almost stupidly. _You’re from Scotland? Yes, yes of course. But you were in London._

“Oh of course you are,” she says. “I should have recognized the accent. Glasgow?”

He nods.

He stares.

He opens his mouth and considers asking just what the hell is going on. “This has to be a hallucination.”

“It’s magic, Mr. Gold.”

“Caelan,” he says. “I mean, under the circumstances…” Magic. It’s not possible. Magic doesn’t exist. It’s left for wizards in books, Gandalf the Great and all that. It’s fantasy, one of the beauties of the human imagination. It’s not _real_.

 _But_ …

“Of course…Caelan.” She sounds his name out as if she’s tasting it, savoring it somehow, feeling the way her mouth forms around the syllables and _bloody hell_ if he doesn’t want to step closer to her and…

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry. It’s just…” His voice trails off.

“It’s a lot to take in. I know.” Now she looks concerned and he wants to wipe _that_ look off her face.

“Magic is real,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” she answers. Entirely not necessary, he thinks. It wasn’t meant to be a question, really. It’s almost absurd as…as…well, he can’t honestly think of anything _more_ absurd than this. “You finally believe.” He can hear her breathe what he assumes is a sigh of relief.

He looks around himself, takes a step toward the edge of the cliff they’re standing on. He’s never been to this part of Scotland, though he’s certainly heard of its beauty. It’s just that he doesn’t often have time to do such things. He doesn’t stop to admire the scenery. He just keeps plugging away at life. It’s not like his life has ever been exactly _good_.

His ex abandoned him years ago, took his son with her. He sees him once a month for a short visit. He’ll see him less now that he’s Prime Minister. It’s a sobering thought, really. But how does he reconcile _this_?

“You look ill,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I am,” he admits.

She nods and steps closer. “Come, Caelan. Let’s continue our walk.”

“Here?”

She nods. “Why not? I can return you to London post-haste.”

“Yes,” he says. “Of course you can.”

* * *

They’ve been strolling arm-in-arm some feet from the edge of the cliff. Caelan seems to want to stay away from it when Belle wants to pull closer, enjoy the adventure of it all. But she understands. He doesn’t see the world the way she does.

He _can’t_.

His feet are firmly rooted on the ground, in the reality of a mundane world full of cars and trains and the politics of anger and divisiveness.

“So magic has always been here?” he’s asking her. She’s still not completely sure if he’s just humoring her or if he really is starting to believe. She had pulled perhaps the most dramatic trick she could think of: apparating them to some distance place.

Perhaps a bit too distant.

She knows that side-along apparition can make the other person ill, especially when it’s some distance away, and perhaps more so when that person is entirely unprepared for the strangeness of it all.

“Always,” she responds with. “It’s been out there forever.”

“But we don’t know about it…”

She frowns. This is always the hard part, she imagines, telling a Muggle just why they hide it from them. It could make their lives easier, certainly, apparating to distant places, small spells for heat or protection, the flue network. “No,” she finally says.

He stops then and turns to look at her. She’s struck again, standing so close to him, by just how handsome he really is. She almost reaches out to run her fingers through his hair, wondering if the strands feel as soft as they look. “But why?”

“What do you think might happen if everyone knew?”

She watches the way his brow scrunches up a little, just a small furrow above his sharp nose. “Right,” he finally says. “We’d either want to tear you apart to figure out how _we_ might be able to get magic. Or we’d take advantage of you.”

She nods. “Imagine. An entire slave race of witches and wizards.”

He shudders.

“Good,” she responds with. “You understand.”

“All too well.”

They fall silent then and almost as one they resume walking along the cliffs. They’re close to the tip, looking out over the ocean, when he stops her and turns her toward him.

“Belle?” His voice is quiet, a bit hesitant.

“You don’t have to say it,” she murmurs.

“Say…”

“I feel it too,” she says, looking up to meet his eyes.

She watches as he swallows thickly and reaches out a hand to brush it along her jaw line. “This is insanity,” he mutters.

“Is it?”

“You’re a….”

“Witch? And you know about magic. So I’d say that doesn’t really matter at this point.” She smirks up at him. His hand runs lightly along the bottom of her jaw and she likes the way it feels there. Warm and strong. Laborer’s hands, and not for the first time she wonders just what his story is.

“No,” he says, clears his throat. “I guess it wouldn’t.”

His eyes search hers as her hand comes up to touch his. And then she’s up on her toes, pressing her mouth to his in just a quick soft kiss. She likes the feel of his lips, soft and warm under hers. It’s over almost before it’s begun, his hand coming up to touch his lips briefly before he smiles at her.

“So…there’s a pub in town...” she starts to say.

“Are you asking me out?” There’s an amused quirk to the side of his mouth.

“That depends,” she says, an answering smirk on her own face. “Are you accepting?”

He watches her for a moment and the smirk becomes a full blown smile. “Yes. Yes I think I am.”

“Then yes, I’m asking you out.” She links her arm through his and together they turn down the path that leads to the nearby town. She has no idea where this is leading, but there’s a part of her that feels like this is the beginning of something quite wonderful.

She’ll have to remember to thank Minister Granger next time she sees her.


End file.
